35. Cry #2
who never got held right.
An ache that startles her awake, and begs to be rocked back to sleep.
A midnight orgasm—
the bedtime story my body still believes, and the closest thing I have to tucking myself in.
Andrew’s sleeping on his stomach. His naked body drapes across me like a heated blanket—either protecting me from the world, or making damn sure I don’t slip out while he’s dreaming.
His chest is on mine,
leg snug between my legs,
face buried in my neck.
And I’m on my back, clinging to his spine like a little girl who never figured out how to stop missing her parents.
His breath drags hot against my throat, sweet with sleep. His chest rises in sync with me.
My hand moves slow, first wetting my fingers in my mouth, then slipping them between my thighs, straight to the throb, fingertip to clit, and a shredded moan spills out of me.
My hips lift into my hand,
chasing the—
Andrew stirs.
My finger freezes.
I count the seconds,
wait him out.
At first I think he’s still asleep, until his hand travels lower, and his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
“Keep goin’,” he rasps,
sleep thick in his throat.
One of my thighs is locked between his. He grabs the other, bending my knee, and dropping it open.
His palm slides hot down my inner thigh ‘til I’m fully spread, nowhere to hide, and his mouth slides back to my ear, breath fanning my cheek and hazing my thoughts.
“C’mere,” he murmurs. “Right here.” In the dark, his eyes are hungry and sleep-drunk.
So I keep going, circling my pulsing clit, chasing the lightning riding up my spine.
My hip curls into him, craving him, but his hand stays on my inner thigh, keeping me open, spread, his fingers raking the sensitive skin as I grind out a climax.
The orgasm simmers slow like embers buried in snow, melting me from the inside out.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, each exhale a warm, minty fog on my lips, lingering, cruel.
The faster the climax climbs,
the more my heart skips,
stutters,
spills,
right between us,
terrified.
I’m fucking terrified.
I’m staring into Brandon’s eyes,
scared shitless.
I turn and press my spine against the door. He inches back on instinct, still remembering the rule, as if it’s written across the Boys’ bones:
no man stands over me.
A pathetic laugh slips out of me,
realizing how fucked all this looks.
When I look up at him, my eyes sting. “There was a time I thought, if I could keep anyone forever, it’d be you,” I tell him.
“‘Cause up until the day you left me, you were the only guy who ever made me feel safe.” I shrug, my chest hurting. “I don’t wanna lie to you, B. I’m only here ‘cause… you’re the only other safe place I know when I can’t trust myself to stand on my own.
” I push my hair back. “That’s all this is. ”
The silence in the apartment’s stifling.
It feels like forever passes
with his eyes on me.
“Truth?” he says. “I didn’t think you could ever feel a damn thing for me.
” His exhale borders on a laugh. “Never saw you cry. Never saw you break down. Never thought I’d mean shit to you.
So you showin’ up here, lookin’ scared, needin’ me?
That’s more than I ever thought I’d get outta you.
” He lays his hand on his chest. “People spend their whole lives lookin’ for safe.
If that’s what I am to you? Christ, Baby. I’ll take it. I’ll fuckin’ take it.”
Brandon grounds me, reminds me of who I was before Andrew.
I need that strong girl back.
I’m willing to do anything to be her again—strong as iron, a shield, puncture-proof.
I shut down my thoughts and stride forward, erasing the distance.
Then I’m fisting the collar of his hoodie, tugging him down until our mouths collide. Instantly, his hands shoot up and catch my face, afraid I’m going to pull away.
A groan shakes in his throat, his tongue sliding in, tasting like mint and nicotine. And I take it, poisoning my mouth so I stop tasting Andrew.
I kiss him and kiss him, using his lips as a scalpel to cut out the feelings, dismembering my sick heart and draining myself dry.
“Fuck—you sure? You even know what you’re doin’ right now?” He kisses me again. “You don’t kiss nobody, Baby. So what the fuck is this? What’re you doin’?”
I groan. “Clearly I’m kissin’ you, B.
“And if you shut up for two seconds,
“you’ll find out I need to fuck you, too.”
He breaks into big, stupid, Staten smile and wastes no time, scooping me up from the floor, my legs wrapping around him, and he carries me to the couch.
His hoodie’s gone.
My coat peels away.
Next, my sweatshirt.
My jeans and panties hit the floor.
His knees crash at my feet.
His hands grab my knees,
and he spreads me open,
head lowering until his tongue's sliding through everything he's craved.
I sink into the couch, eyes falling shut.
But behind my lids, Andrew’s still there.
All of him, haunting and ghost-heavy,
still fucking inside me...
He’s still on top of me.
All of him tangled up
in all of me.
That’s how I wake up:
clinging to him,
surrounded by him,
guarded by him.
I’m five-three and drowning
under six feet of boy.
He’s dead asleep and dreaming with his face pressed to my temple, breath catching in the strands, one arm flung wide across the bed, the other hand curled against my scalp, fingers lost in my hair.
And his chest, it’s everywhere, spilling over, moving with mine, as if we’ve been sharing the same set of lungs since midnight.